I Like Who I Am, Do You? (a Dean/Cas Valentines Day fic, 5/5 chapters, 13k words)
Nearly a month after the events of "Lebanon", Dean has slowly but steadily been tearing down his walls. It's one thing to say he liked who he was, and another to live it. He's getting there, one day at a time. But with Valentine's Day around the corner, Dean wants to take his largest step yet by asking Cas out on a date.
With help from his family, can he do it? And will Cas say yes? Dean has a good feeling, but it's always a toss-up for a Winchester whenever the forecast calls for happiness.
Because Dean might like who he is, that doesn't mean Cas will. That's what makes it all the more nerve-wracking for him.
Dean poured more sauce into the pan, pointedly ignoring the calendar hanging across the room. It had greeted Dean upon entry with blaring red circles over one of its many boxes. They weren’t there last he checked, so before doing anything else he stepped closer to investigate. What he found made his face burn the same bright color of the marker used. After that he forced his eyes away, always stopping himself before the calendar reached his line of sight again. It hadn’t helped that throughout the entirety of his time in the kitchen it sang a distracting melody, calling to him.
Luckily, a distraction named Sam Winchester walked in. His heavy gait announced his arrival far before he turned the corner. When he did, Dean was already grinning his way. “Look who decided to wake up?”
Sam yawned. “What’re you making?”
“Meatball subs,” Dean told him. Sam shuffled by, humming thoughtfully. “Don’t worry though,” he continued, “I also have a salad chilling in the fridge for you. Consider it a thank you for ganking the vamp that almost got my flank.”
He snorted. “You can thank me by helping yourself to some of it.”
“…I’m not filled with that much gratitude, Sammy.”
“Hey Dean? Did you do this?”
Dean glanced backwards, immediately regretting it as he zeroed in on where Sam pointed. His finger poked at the dead center of the circles, eyebrow raised and ready to mock.
He flushed, returning to his cooking. “Thought you did it.”
“You’re the one who cares about this day more than I do,” Sam said, “Although where’d you get the red marker –“
“I said I didn’t do it!” He slapped the wooden spoon into the pan, sauce spraying everywhere. Cursing under breath, Dean grabbed for a nearby towel, dabbing at his already ruined shirt before cleaning up the rest of his mess. He knew Sam watched him work, questions hanging overhead buzzing loudly like the fluorescents in their kitchen. Dean wished Sam would think nothing of his small outburst. But there weren’t any pearls to save him.
Sam struck when he plated the meatballs. “So,” he started, “that was… something.”
Dean sighed, resigning himself to the conversation. “Before you start your interrogation can you let me finish dinner at least?”
“Sure, but if it looks like you’re stalling I’m asking my first question.”
He huffed, annoyed with how well his brother knew him. Dean sped his actions up back to normal speed. Taking the garlic-and-butter painted baguette halves, he set to assembling the subs. He made two foot-long subs for the both of them, wrapping up the leftover meatballs to store for later. Replacing it with the bowl for the salad, Dean brought it to the table, shoving it at Sam. “Graze,” he muttered. After bringing over the sandwiches, Dean grabbed two bottles of El Sol before finally taking his seat across from Sam. He dug into his first sandwich; disregarding any eye contact Sam threw his way. “I didn’t do it, honest.”
Sam smacked his lips, a sharp puff of air shooting through his nose. “Fine,” he said, “so you didn’t do it, who cares at this point? I want to know why you freaked out like that.”
“Dean, it was like watching Mom discover your magazines all over again.”
He winced, remembering how Mary cornered him in the library with a copy of Busty Asian Beauties in her hands and a disappointed look stretched across her face. What made it worse was how public his shaming was, with Sam and Jack having front row seats.
Sam powered on. “If this is about how you celebrate it, I’ve long accepted that’s how the day’s gonna go for you. Even if you are forty and should be doing better things, I’m not going to crack jokes about it anymore.”
Dean paused, unsure of what to do next. Sam, in his ramblings, provided him a perfect out. A path he could follow that would involve some awkward laughing, light ribbing, and only marginal choking as Dean stuffed his face fast enough to escape. Except, with one foot out and ready to go down, Dean found he couldn’t do it.
“Actually,” Dean said, voice low and stilted, “I was… I’m not doing that this year.”
Sam blinked at him. “What?”
“Yeah,” he confessed, “I – uh, I never really cared that much about it either. The first time it happened, it wasn’t really what I was planning.” Dean was only twenty, having snuck into the bar alongside John after a successful hunt. A woman with dark hair, blotchy makeup, and a pronounced slur stalked her way over and heavily communicated her wants to Dean. John looked at him with pride, winking and giving them space. He had the same expression on his face when Dean met up with him later, when the bar had closed and Suzie-Sandra-Sarah-whatever was still smoking her cigarette in the bathroom.
“Like a chip off the old block,” John clapped him on the back, “My son the lady killer.”
It only felt natural to keep with tradition after that. So every Valentine’s Day, Dean found himself a friendly dive where he could hook up with a stranger for the night, spend the night with another broken heart, with John’s smile in the back of his mind.
As the years went by, the specter of John’s face disappeared further and further into the ether. And now, with only a few days before Valentine’s Day, it’s completely gone. Along with any desire Dean has to sleep with another stranger. There’s only one person his body called for these past few years. Very recently it wouldn’t shut up with ideas revolving around the upcoming holiday. That was Dean’s problem with the calendar.
